Props and Mayhem
by cougarlips
Summary: In which shit happens, Daryl shuts down, and Jesus is a masochist. COMIC SPOILERS: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH. Daryl/Jesus. M for violence. Third person POV, Daryl centric.
a/n: Title and quote are from the song "Props and Mayhem" by Pierce the Veil, from their 2012 _Collide with the Sky_ record.

* * *

"Separate me from my own two hands; I've killed so many times but _I can't save the world from the creatures that don't die_."

Somewhere, Rick had a gun and was shooting. Somewhere, Michonne and Abraham cut people into pieces. Somewhere, Tara held onto Maggie as they cried into one another. Somewhere, Daryl Dixon sat on his knees in the middle of a road, unable to formulate a coherent thought.

Blood sprayed down his neck as bodies were torn apart around him. Gunshots firing, blades swinging, plunging, diving into flesh with squelches and gurgles. Daryl vaguely recognised Carol and Morgan pulling Maggie and Tara away. He watched Sasha pull Enid out of harm's way, both their faces gaunt and slick with a sickly sheen. He saw Aaron and Heath lift up the bloodied corpse that started it all.

He couldn't move. Daryl watched everything with a disembodied lucidity, eyes glossed over and taking nothing in except that this was chaos, all out war. The Governor's attack on the prison didn't compare; the fall of their home was nothing, _nothing_ compared to this.

He heard echoing voices amidst the screaming of the damned, the groaning of the dead, the snapping and the cracking of weapons against flesh and bones. He felt sure hands grip his wrists and heave him up, but the figure's dialogue was lost on Daryl, lost through the haze of shock and grief already settling into his bones.

Nothing registered in his mind. He watched everything as if he were above it all, as if it was a scene from a movie that he watched before everything. If not for the hot, sticky substance drying on his skin, on his clothes, in his hair, he could've told himself it was just a distant dream. If not for the fading wailing and groaning, he almost could ignore its reality.

Steady hands gripped him around the waist, and Daryl saw piercing aqua eyes through the hat and mask, saw the concerned expression hidden behind the bloodied fabric on Jesus's face. No sound reached his ears. No words made their way into Daryl's mind. He heard Jesus's mumbling, his pitch that was quiet and soothing, but if there was any sense to what he was telling him, nothing registered.

Through the woods they wandered until Daryl recognised the very same lake that the two, and Rick, fought for the Sorghum truck. Jesus stopped by the waterside and pulled Daryl down with him, his eyes detached and calculating.

Here, beside the water, Daryl's senses began to return to him. Under the muffle of the blood pounding in his veins, he could recognise some of the words Jesus was mumbling. " … watching over her … need time to heal…." It went in and out, his coherency. Sometimes all he did was curse under his breath, and his mumbled "fuck" rattled around inside Daryl's head more than any other full sentence he caught.

He watched blearily as Jesus stripped out of his trenchcoat, out of the insulated jacket underneath, the cotton hoodie under that, until he was left only with a thin white button-down. Without a second's delay, he grabbed the hem of his sleeve between his teeth and ripped a strip off, then two, then three, dozens more until his arm was left bare. Steadily, he began soaking the cloth in the water, and from there he began to wipe off Daryl's face and neck.

Under different circumstances, Daryl would have shoved the man away. He maybe even would've punched him or shoved him into the lake because Daryl took care of _himself_. This, however, was not under typical circumstances. Daryl could no more control the trembling of his hands than he could control the war behind them or the death that permeated the dirt underneath them.

Every time Jesus turned away from Daryl with cloth saturated in red, he dunked it back in the water and returned with a fresh strip. It took almost five strips (or maybe it was six? Eight? Ten? Daryl stopped counting somewhere after his vision began blurring with red water) before he finally turned back to face Daryl, a vulnerability in his eyes that shocked Daryl, livening his system just enough that he processed the other man's words.

"I'm sorry," Jesus said, quiet and defenseless. He let his shoulders sag forward in shame, bowing his head and allowing his hair to create a curtain between them. "This is all my fault. If I hadn't…. I didn't have to get you guys involved. If it weren't for me, no one would have -"

Daryl shook his head, damp hair dancing in and out of his vision. "Nah," he grumbled, voice hoarse. "Don't finish that sentence."

Jesus looked up to meet Daryl's eyes, and for once Daryl saw the emotion that he kept blocked off. His cheeks stained red and a self-deprecating smile on his lips, he shook his head. "If I didn't try and take your supplies, your people wouldn't have gotten involved with Hilltop. It's my fault you guys got in this mess. It's my fault Glenn…" he dropped off, choking mid-sentence. He lifted his face to the sky, closed his eyes, and pressed his lips together.

"Bullshit," Daryl muttered. Jesus faced him, his expression confused. "We woulda gotten involved even if we didn't meet you. Those pricks found us months before you showed up."

Jesus didn't comment. He fixed his strange blue eyes on Daryl's as if searching for an answer in them. "Maggie's going to have to raise their baby alone," he whispered softly. "Because of _me_."

Daryl eyed Jesus, slowly regaining his own composure as frustration began building inside his chest, making his head pound. "You wanna blame yourself?" he spat. Standing up gingerly, he looked down at Jesus, still on his knees in the mud. "Fine. It's all your fault. Everything that's happened since you took the truck - it's on you." As he went on, his voice got louder with each wave of anger that hit him. "Why didn't you just leave it be when we got it back? It woulda saved us a lot of trouble -"

Jesus stood and faced Daryl with steel in his eyes. "It's all my fault," he repeated, looking up into Daryl's face. "I might as well have killed Glenn myself -"

Daryl swung his arm and his fist collided with Jesus's jaw, rage contorting his face.

"Come on!" Jesus yelled. "Is that the best you can do?"

In this back of his mind, Daryl knew Jesus was doing this on purpose, egging him on so that he would be forced to hit him, but the words stung too much, the guilt in his head hurt too much for him to rationalize. Grabbing him by the front of his shirt, Daryl held Jesus still as he rammed his fist into his cheek once, twice, three times, until his limbs sagged with a physical exhaustion that rivaled his mental one. He released his grip on Jesus's ragged shirt and dropped to the ground, pulling his head into his hands, only half noticing Jesus dropping down beside him.

Silence passed between them before Daryl forced himself up and returned to the waterside to gather the soaking cloth and Jesus's clothes. He said nothing as he raised Jesus up by the shoulder and ripped the already ragged shirt off of his sweaty torso. Without so much as a mumble, he began to do to Jesus what Jesus had done for him: clean the blood off of his skin, rinse the wounds as best he could.

Daryl helped stand Jesus up, slightly concerned with how unresponsive the man was behaving, how little resistance he offered. He began sliding his arms back through what he consistently referred to as his "armor": the cotton sweatshirt, the insulated hoodie, the leather trenchcoat. "C'mon," he muttered, and the two began their trek back to Alexandria.

The funeral pyre lit for Glenn was set further away from Alexandria. Daryl could see the smoke in the distance as he and Jesus passed by the grave Heath and Rick began to dig. So engrossed in their grief, they didn't even look up to see the two pass by, and the two walked on without breaking stride.

Daryl rapped twice on Aaron and Eric's front door before entering, locking eyes with a pale-faced Aaron before the other nodded. No words passed. The couple followed the pair with tired eyes as they trudged up the stairs to Daryl's bedroom.

Jesus allowed Daryl to shove him into a chair before, once again, stripping him clean of any fabric from the waist up. Now clearer minded, Daryl noticed how small he seemed without his clothes. He also noticed how discolored his skin was now that the bruises had time to settle into his flesh. Jesus met Daryl's eyes evenly, a smirk on his lips. "Don't know why you're bothering, to be honest."

"Man, shut the hell up," Daryl muttered. "You asked for it."

Jesus sighed. "I did, didn't I?" he mused, wincing as Daryl began to dab at his face with cool water and a towel.

" … fuckin' idiot," he mumbled. "Ain't none of this your fault."

"Perhaps not," Jesus relented. "I suppose it's a little bit of everyone's fault. Of course, I could pin the blame entirely on Negan if I wanted to, but blaming someone else won't change how I feel.."

Daryl eyed him and cursed under his breath. He repeated, slightly softer in his gruff tone, "None of this is your fault."

Jesus looked up at Daryl, reaching up to stop Daryl's hand from prodding at his skin. He pulled his hand away and laced their fingers together before pressing their joined hands to his forehead. He braced his body, stiffened as Daryl did, expecting another punch to come his way, not sure how the man would react to his unspoken suggestion, but when Daryl raised their joined hands with a small, slight nod, Jesus felt a smile creep onto his lips.

Standing slowly from the wooden chair, Jesus met Daryl eye-to-eye. He raised his other hand and used leather-wrapped fingers to brush sweaty hair out of Daryl's face. With his eyes fixed on Daryl's, he leaned in close, so close that he could feel the other man's breath on his face, hot and nervous, before pressing their lips together.

As Daryl brought a hand up to cup Jesus's cheek, Jesus pressed his chest flush against Daryl's, angling his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Daryl tasted like stale cigarettes, smelled like sweat and engine grease, but his hands were warm and his arms were strong as Jesus pushed him towards the bed.

"You sure?" Daryl asked, peering heavily lidded eyes down at Jesus.

Already working at the buttons on Daryl's vest, Jesus nodded, his breath hitching with each inhale in anticipation. "Only if you are," he answered.


End file.
